Once Bitten
by pgrabia
Summary: When Wilson disappears without a trace House sets to work solving the puzzle of where he went and why, unknowingly racing against the clock to save his best friend from trouble. Set post-series finale, S. 8 ep 22 "Everybody Dies". Written for the Camp Sick!Wilson 'Cure!Wilson Challenge' at the Sick!Wilson community on LJ. Slash. Spoilers up to and incl. the series finale.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: ****Once Bitten**

**Author: pgrabia**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D. and its characters do not belong to me. I am only borrowing them for entertainment purposes only and I'm not making any money from this.

**Genre: **Drama/Romance

**Characters/Pairing(s): **G. House, J. Wilson, various OCs/ House/Wilson slash.

**Word Count: **~9100

**Spoilers/Warnings: **General spoilers for all seasons up to and including episode 8x22 "Everybody Dies"

**Rating: M (R)**

**A/N: **In fulfillment of **Camp Sick!Wilson 2012 Challenge # 1: Danger Man** at the Sick!Wilson community on Livejournal.

**Once Bitten**

House rolled over in bed, expecting to find a warm body there but discovering only a cold mattress. He frowned, opened his eyes, and saw that Wilson was no longer in bed; since their motel room was small enough that he could see all of it at once, he realized that Wilson wasn't there. The bathroom door was shut, but there was no light shining from under it to indicate that he might be in there. House rubbed his eyes before looking at the clock on Wilson's side of the bed; it displayed 5:15 am.

"What the hell?" House said under his breath. He had no idea where his best friend could have gone so early in the morning. House rubbed his face with his hands and went through his normal morning 'wake up the leg' routine. It wasn't that he couldn't feel his leg—quite the contrary, it was aching as it usually did—but he had to go through a series of stretches and flexion before he dared sit up or try to stand on it.

A few minutes later his leg was as ready as it was ever going to be. House grabbed his right thigh and lifted his leg over the edge of the bed followed independently by his left. Bracing himself, House slowly stood up and winced briefly as his leg protested having weight placed upon it. He willed that away; it was normal—well, normal for him, anyway. He groaned from a kink in his back; House hated being reminded by his body that he was too old to be traversing the country by motorcycle with a younger oncologist dying from cancer. This was, however, what Wilson wanted for his last five to six months on earth, and whatever Wilson wanted, Wilson got.

House grabbed his cane from where it leaned against the wall next to his side of the bed and limped slowly toward the bathroom just to make certain that Wilson wasn't in there. Ever since Wilson's diagnosis and decision not to take treatment for his thymoma, House had found himself being very protective of him. That generally wasn't House's style, but Wilson was the exception to the rule; he only had a handful of months left with the most important person in the world to him and he'd be damned if he let something happen to shorten that time even further.

House opened the door to see that the light was, indeed, off and Wilson was not within. Where did that moron go? There was a Denny's restaurant across the street. Had Wilson had trouble sleeping and rather than waking House had decided to go for a coffee and an early breakfast instead?

He used the toilet since he was there and then decided to take a quick shower, dress, and hunt Wilson down.

…

It had been Wilson's idea to head to Arizona after Colorado, thinking that the warm, arid desert climate would be good for House's leg. He'd known that House had been really suffering lately, his leg not appreciating riding on a motorcycle for eight hours a day (on average). They'd been away from Princeton for three weeks now, riding almost every day. Wilson had felt guilty every time he'd seen House trying hard to hide his suffering from him.

Wilson knew that House thought his leg pain trivial compared to what Wilson was facing and didn't want him to be concerned about it, but Wilson couldn't help it. He loved House and hated to see him in pain; he wasn't Kyle Calloway, that uncaring, self-centered creep—as much as he sometimes wished he were.

He feeling great, much better than he'd felt for months; if Wilson hadn't seen the test results and scans with his own trained eyes, he would never believe that he even had cancer. With the stress of his job and responsibilities left behind him, Wilson felt freer and healthier than he had in fifteen years. So he had the head and heart space to worry about and care for his best friend if only House would let him.

The climate, however, hadn't been the only reason for him wanting to swing down Arizona way on his and House's final adventure together. That had impressed itself upon him just a few days before, and just now played out again in Wilson's mind…

_House and he stopped in Boulder, Colorado for the night and went to a nicer restaurant to eat; while on the road they usually stopped at truck stops and diners or McDonalds for a bite to eat but Wilson was in need of a good meal that evening. They had a good time over great wine and conversation that carefully steered away from the subject of Wilson's illness and House's legal problems (as in his being legally dead as far as the rest of the world was concerned and a fugitive on the run should anyone discover that he was still alive)._

_After dinner they walked back to their hotel room, which was less than a five-minute walk away. Wilson was feeling lightly buzzed from the wine and in a very good mood. Even House had been good-humored and quite flirty with Wilson, as he usually was with him on a good, relaxing evening. He wasn't certain how it happened but their conversation took a turn and they were now on the topic of sex and logistics._

"_We should have a rule for situations when one of has a chance to get laid," House told him, smirking. "A tie-on-the-doorknob rule."_

"_Why?" Wilson asked, amused by the change in topic. "Planning on picking up a hooker on our way back?"_

"_I happen to know that the hookers in this town belong in a dog pound—no, don't ask," House told him. "But eventually one of us is going to get horny and want to get laid. So we use the tie on the doorknob to let each other know when one of us is entertaining. Unless we're having a threesome."_

_House was looking at him with a smirk and eyes that smoldered. For a long time Wilson had believed he was imagining it whenever House would give him that same look and he'd thought the same thing, but he'd come to the conclusion that there just might be more there than either of them had ever talked about before._

_Wilson raised an eyebrow and returned his smirk. "A threesome involving me and you? We've never had that twosome, let alone a threesome."_

"_And whose fault is that?" House demanded mildly, not hiding the fact that he was checking out Wilson's body with appreciative eyes. "I've only been hitting you over the head with homoerotic comments and suggestion since I was released from prison. You're the one who's been wallowing in denial."_

_They were in front of their hotel, now, and Wilson stopped in his tracks, looking searchingly at House for anything that might indicate that his best friend of twenty-plus years was joking. He couldn't see anything, and Wilson knew better than pretty much everybody what House's tells were._

"_You mean…you weren't kidding around with all of those little remarks and the flirting?" he asked the diagnostician—well, former diagnostician, now walking-dead guy. He lowered his voice. "You were serious? You…you want to have sex with me?"_

_House had stopped to stand in front of him, much closer than Wilson had at first realized. House only had to take one step to be well within Wilson's personal space. It didn't bother him, though._

"_It's not just about the sex," House told him, teasing and yet at the same time not. "I've wanted you for a long, long time. You've never allowed yourself to notice it until lately, and even then I had to come out and say it to your face before you got it."_

"_Because you love me," Wilson said suddenly, a pleased smile dawning on his face._

_House rolled his eyes but didn't deny it. "Would I have given up my entire identity, my future as a doctor, my home—everything—to be with you now if I didn't?" House took that step forward._

"_But you said you'd never say to me that you love me unless I started treatment," Wilson pointed out, his eyes narrowing slightly._

"_And I haven't said it," House replied, his eyes sparkling. "Thus proving my point. Actions speak louder than words."_

_Wilson felt House's warm hand touch his and then clasp it gently, all the while looking into his eyes with love and desire. His heart rate sped up, the heart itself pounding hard in his chest. He couldn't believe this was actually happening and yet it was and it felt so right. It occurred to him how tragic it was that House and he had finally come clean about their feelings for each other when he only had a few months left to be with him in that way. He forced that thought out of his mind, refusing to allow cancer to destroy this moment for them._

_He wanted to kiss House right there and then, but House led him by the hand into the hotel, through the lobby, and to the elevator. There was a middle-aged woman waiting for it, too, much to Wilson's frustration. The looks House was giving him were hotter than hell and the oncologist felt himself hardening despite his efforts not to. When the elevator arrived at their floor House practically dragged him out of the car and toward their room. Once inside with the Do Not Disturb sign out and the door bolted in addition to the electronic lock, Wilson took over the aggressive role and practically shoved House against the wall, grabbed either side of House's head and kissed him desperately, House grinned beneath his lips, and kissed back with just as much fervor. He dropped his cane; his hands ran up and down Wilson's back before ending up on his ass, squeezing the gluteals hard. It sent a shiver up Wilson's spine and drove him crazier with lust. _

_Somehow they ended up on the bed, both half-naked, without stopping their kissing for any longer than to breathe. It didn't take long before all clothes were shed and they both worshipped each other's bodies as they made love. It wasn't the first time either of them had had sex with a member of the same gender but it was as if neither of them had ever really known what making love really was until then. Once was not enough and as soon as they were able they made love again. After, they lay under the blankets, holding each other without embarrassment. Wilson was on his back, sated, completely relaxed but not sleeping. He had an arm around House, who was on his side, curled completely around him, holding Wilson possessively, his scruffy face buried in Wilson's neck, still pressing small kisses to his sensitive skin._

_One simple thought disturbed Wilson's contentment. He was finally happy, with the only person he had ever truly loved, and it would be over far too soon. If House felt even close to the way he did, this new intimacy would act as a dagger in his chest once Wilson was dead and he was truly and completely alone. House had loved him so much that he had literally burned every bridge to be with him and for what? To be left with nothing once cancer had completely claimed Wilson without a fight._

_He couldn't lose this, Wilson decided. He couldn't reward House's love and devotion with surrender to an enemy that was going to tear them apart forever…_

Wilson closed his eyes against the sun, already high in the sky, threatening to blind him.

That had been when Wilson had changed his mind about treatment. The next morning he'd gotten up early to grab his laptop and using the hotel's complimentary Wi-Fi to look up information on some of the specialized clinics in the western United States where relatively new and often experimental methods of cancer treatment were underway. A highly respected oncologist Wilson had had the good fortune to meet at a conference several years before and had struck up a friendship with headed one of the clinics; it was located in Scottsdale, Arizona.

He'd had no idea if he would even qualified for any of the protocols currently being run at that clinic but it was at least worth looking into. At the same time, he hadn't wanted to get House's hopes up only to discover that he wasn't a suitable candidate. So he'd decided not to tell House about his decision until after he'd met with the clinic officials and determined whether or not he would be accepted. If he were, then he'd tell House, surprise him with the news. If not, then House would be none-the-wiser.

Wilson had made the necessary phone calls when House was in the bath and had set an appointment for an orientation and any necessary pre-treatment testing while still in Colorado. They had headed south from Boulder because Wilson had told House he'd always wanted to see Arizona. House, as he had throughout their road trip, had indulged him.

This morning he'd gotten up early to head to his appointment before House woke up. It had been made for eight am so Wilson had been extra careful not to wake House as he got ready and left. House had slept soundly and Wilson had succeeded at escaping without his lover knowing. His hope had been that House would sleep to at least ten like he was wont to do if Wilson didn't get him up earlier. If Wilson wasn't done at the clinic by then he'd call House and tell him that he'd felt restless and went for a ride on the motorcycle House had picked out for him, that he'd be back soon and then they could go out for brunch together.

The orientation meeting had gone wonderfully. Apparently, a new protocol was about to begin on using DNA specific markers to direct radiation therapy as well as chemotherapy to attack only those cells that were cancerous while sparing healthy cells the kind of abuse and damage traditional chemo/radio therapy caused. The first round of trials in the longitudinal study had shown excellent results; the five year survival rate for epithelial and lymphatic cell cancers like melanoma and thymoma at stage 3 progression at the start of treatment was 87 percent with the quality of life for those undergoing treatment being rated by the patients themselves as good to very good. After a few on the spot scans and blood tests it had been determined that Wilson was still late stage two and otherwise in excellent health, thus definitely a candidate for the protocol. It wasn't cheap, despite the fact that the program was partially funded by fundraising and corporate interest in the project but Wilson wasn't too concerned. He might have to sell the loft to cover the cost, but he wasn't all that attached to the place and getting to live even five years more with House (if not longer) was definitely worth it.

He'd signed up on the spot, knowing that House would be annoyed that he wasn't consulted first but incredibly relieved that Wilson had changed his mind about treatment. Wilson had headed home with a grin glued to his face and a flame of hope lit in his chest where it had been dark and cold up until then. He'd been very eager to tell House over brunch.

But now, as his vision faded and his mouth and tongue went from burning to numb and the excruciating pain spreading up his leg from his ankle, that flame of hope was waning. It appeared that instead of expanding his time with House, he was now going to die in the blazing Arizona sun in the bottom of an arid gulley, his bike nothing but a tangled, beat-up heap of metal about twenty yards away and his cellphone broken on a pile of rocks mere inches from his reach.

_I'm sorry, House,_ Wilson thought as the darkness slowly swallowed him up, _I forgot to lean into the turn_.

…

Wilson's bike was gone from where he had parked it next to House's in the motel parking lot. House looked at the empty space grimly, frowning. The Denny's was just across the street so there was no reason for Wilson to take his bike to get there. Obviously he had gone somewhere else, without leaving a note or any other indication as to where he'd gone and when he expected to be back. It was an act of irresponsibility completely unlike his best friend. Wilson had been trying to let his hair down and live by the moment now that every moment was precious, but deep down he was still the responsible, dependable oncologist that always left notes or messages when he was going somewhere unexpectedly.

So, either this had been expected, or Wilson hadn't wanted House to know where he'd gone for some reason. For a moment, and only a moment, panic struck his heart as the idea that Wilson had tired of him or regretted taking their friendship to the next level and had ditched him flitted through his mind. House quickly disregarded that, knowing without a doubt that Wilson loved him and wanted House as much as House wanted him. Besides, Wilson's clothes and personal possessions were still in the motel room but for his helmet, cellphone, and wallet—and now his bike. So either Wilson had decided to leave with nothing but the clothes on his back, which was so unlikely as to be laughable, or he was planning on returning at some point.

Either way, House knew that worrying about Wilson wouldn't do anything, and he was too hungry, now that he was awake, to bother waiting for his partner to return before he had breakfast. Deciding to trust Wilson to return before long, House limped his way toward Denny's, imagining a Grand Slam going down his gullet.

Once he was seated in the restaurant, a cup of coffee in front of him and his order taken, House took out his cellphone—a disposable that didn't require him to sign a contract and be traceable—and called Wilson's. Instead of ringing, an automated message picked up announcing that the number he was calling was not available. If Wilson was busy and unable to answer it should have directed him to voicemail, so that meant that his phone was either turned off or malfunctioning.

Now the game was afoot. Wilson had left House a puzzle for the day to distract him from his boredom. Either that, or Wilson was in danger and needed him to figure out where he was before it was too late.

House thought back to their conversations over the past few days, trying to remember if Wilson had said anything either on purpose or unintentionally that would explain where he'd gone this morning. Try as he might House couldn't recall a thing although something stood out that he had found a little peculiar. Wilson had pretty much insisted on heading to Arizona even though prior to that they had talked about heading directly for Nevada and spending a couple of days in Vegas. In fact, they had both been looking forward to it. Then, just a couple of days after their first night making love Wilson had done an about face and insisted they stop for a few days in the Phoenix-area because he'd never golfed at some of the excellent courses in Scottsdale and wanted to try them. When House had objected Wilson had kissed him really sweetly and looked at him with those brown puppy-dog eyes and that was, as they say, that. There was no way House could resist him and damn it Wilson _knew_ it.

So here they were just outside of Scottsdale and they were supposed to take in a couple of rounds of golf this afternoon but Wilson was gone with no explanation whatsoever. He couldn't be raised via cellphone, either. House worried his lip as he thought. What if coming to Scottsdale to golf had been a ruse and Wilson had wanted to come here for some other reason? What could that reason be? And if there were another reason, why would Wilson keep it from him and lie about his motive for coming here? Arizona was nice, the climate was great for his leg, and House didn't mind taking breaks here and there from the steady vibration of his motorcycle, but he wanted to be told the truth as to why.

His meal was brought to him and his server warmed his cup of coffee before moving on to the next table. House ate quickly, barely tasting his food because his brain was too focused on his puzzle to pay any attention to that. He determined to go back to their room at the motel and search Wilson's stuff for any clue, though Wilson was a bright one and knew that House had little respect for other people's privacy, so if he was trying to keep something secret from House, it was unlikely he'd be careless enough to leave clues where the diagnostician could find them. Still, it was worth a try. He also made a mental note to question the front desk clerk to determine exactly what time Wilson had left and if he'd said anything about where he was going.

His stomach full, House paid his check, left a decent tip for the efficient server, and headed back to the motel. Wilson's bike was still missing, indicating that he hadn't returned while House was eating. He limped into the lobby and up to the desk.

"Hi, I'm in room 212," he said to the pretty young clerk behind the desk, "I was wondering if you could answer a couple of questions for me."

"Certainly, Mister…?"

"Bell," House told her; he'd been using his stepfather's last name as one of his aliases since 'dying' in the warehouse fire. "My partner, Dr. Wilson, left this morning early while I was still asleep. Did you see him when he came down?"

"Forty-something, brown hair greying at the temples and cute as a button?" the clerk asked in confirmation. House frowned at her thinking Wilson was cute; he was, of course, but he was taken and only House had the right to notice that now.

"And wearing a black leather jacket and carrying a helmet," House confirmed, keeping his disgruntlement to himself.

"Yes," she answered, nodding her caramel-haired head. "He was almost out the door when he acted like he'd forgotten something and approached the desk. He was very polite. He asked me to call your room at ten o'clock and to leave you a message." She unlocked a drawer under the counter and pulled out a slip of paper, handing it to House. He skimmed it quickly.

_H,_

_I felt restless and didn't want to disturb you so I decided to go for a ride, check out Scottsdale to scope out the restaurants and bars. I should be back by eleven, eleven-thirty at the latest and then we can go for brunch before we hit the golf course—and yes, I remembered to reserve a golf cart for you. If I'm not back by eleven-thirty, assemble the search teams. _

_ W._

"Did he mention where he was going in Scottsdale?" House asked, still frowning as he pocketed the note.

"Not exactly," the clerk answered, pulling out a complimentary map of Scottsdale from under the desk and placing it on the counter top, "but he did ask me how to get to downtown from here." As she spoke she drew the route in red pen on the map in front of House just as she had for Wilson earlier that morning. "Then he left."

House picked up the map and stared at it for a moment. "What all is located 'downtown'?"

"Just your normal places," she answered, shrugging, "like city hall, businesses, doctor's offices, shopping, restaurants…you know."

House bit the inside of his cheek, trying to figure out what, if anything, Wilson was up to in downtown Scottsdale.

"If you like, I can give you a brochure from the Chamber of Commerce. It has a better map of the downtown area as well as a listing under categories of the various businesses and services located there with phone numbers."

House perked up slightly and nodded. "Yeah, I'd like one of those."

Smiling, the clerk left for a moment to go inside a small office before returning a few seconds later with a booklet, which she handed to him.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?" she asked House. He shook his head, thumbing through the booklet as he made his way to the elevator without another glance or word to her.

Once back in their room, House sat down on the bed and elevated his leg as he went through the chamber of commerce booklet carefully. The businesses and services listed were, as the clerk had mentioned, categorized: Government Offices, Police Headquarters, Restaurants, Banks and Financial institutions, Clinics and Hospitals…

House's eye fell upon that last category and stuck there. Was it possible Wilson had been feeling sick and sought out medical attention, perhaps knowing that what was wrong was more than House could help him with in a motel room? No…no, Wilson would have at least waked him if it were anything serious…wouldn't he? But if it had been serious, he would have called an ambulance rather than drive himself on a motorcycle, and yet…

His startlingly blue eyes went down the list—a short one, at that—until he hit what was like a brick wall sticking up right there in the middle of the page. McMurtry Cancer Treatment Center. _McMurtry…McMurtry_, House mused. The name sounded very familiar now that he thought about it. Then it came to him; Wilson had once mentioned the name of a fellow oncologist he was friends with who worked out west in alternative cancer treatment and research and House was 99% certain his name had been McMurtry…or McMurphy, or something starting with an Mc that didn't have anything to do with hamburgers.

A smile slowly crossed his lips, but it was tentative because House didn't want to get his hopes up too high in case he was wrong. Had Wilson changed his mind about treatment? Was it possible he was considering an alternative treatment plan instead of the standard chemotherapy and radiation regimen, perhaps because it was less painful and unpleasant and perhaps experimental? Or had he simply decided to drop in on a friend for a casual visit before he died?

No, House reasoned. If it had simply been a visit of two old friends he would have told House about it ahead of time. No, this was more serious than that. Wilson hadn't, for whatever reason, wanted House to know about this little trip into town until after he had gone and returned, if at all. If Wilson had decided to investigate treatment options, he might not have wanted House to know and get prematurely optimistic; that way, if Wilson did qualify for and sign up for treatment he could surprise his partner with it, and if he didn't qualify or decided not to go ahead with treatment then House wouldn't have been disappointed because he never would have known. That did sound more Wilson's style.

The clock read 9:45 am. Wilson would be back in an hour or hour-and-a-half, at which time House would ambush him the moment he came in the door and demand answers.

_Foolish of him to think he could keep me in the dark,_ House mused, lying back against his pillow and forcing himself to relax until Wilson returned.

…

Something scampering over his hand pulled Wilson out of the darkness. He blinked a couple of times, realizing that he was awake and why. He lifted his head up as far as he could and looked for the source of the movement. It was next to impossible because his vision was tunneled so greatly that he was almost blind. The strong, burning pain in his ankle had navigated up his leg as far as his thigh and his head dropped back to the dirt as the muscles in his neck were too weak to hold it up for long. Whenever he tried to move any part of his body his muscles seemed too weak to lift their own weight. His head ached ferociously and except for the burn in his right leg, all of his extremities felt numb. He knew these symptoms weren't from the tumble he'd taken as the bike skidded off the highway.

He'd been returning to the motel to tell House the good news about the treatment protocol he was entering. The traffic coming out of Scottsdale had been incredibly light and when he'd turned off onto a range road that supposedly led back to the strip of motels just off the highway he'd found himself the only one in sight. So, of course there had to be a wicked 'S' turn with deep gulleys on either side of the road and he had to be an inexperienced rider with the inability to remember House's instructions about leaning into a turn or curve when he needed to.

He'd actually faired the fall quite well, having managed to jump clear of the rolling bike so that it didn't roll on top of him on it's descent downhill. However, momentum being the bitch it was, Wilson had tumbled down the hill independently. He'd landed at the bottom bumped and bruised pretty extensively with a few nasty cuts and abrasions and a twisted left ankle. He'd been reasonable sure that it was just a sprain and no bones had been fractured, which had been the good news. The bad news had been, no one could see him from the road some thirty feet above so if he'd wanted rescue he'd have to make it up that incline to the top with a sprained ankle and deep bruising.

He'd tried to call for help but couldn't find his cellphone at first. Once he'd located it he'd been disgusted to learn that it had been smashed against some rocks and was useless. He'd tried yelling until he was hoarse, hoping that someone might hear him (on a quiet road from inside their cars as they sped past); when that failed he'd decided he would have to bite the bullet and drag himself up toward the road in spite of the pain.

At first his progress had actually been quite good; he'd had full use of three out of four limbs and though it had hurt to move and drag his injured ankle along with him it had been tolerable. He'd managed to get about a third of the way up when a rock he'd tried to use as a foot-hold had given way, causing him to dangle by his tiring arms. He'd managed to find another, more secure place for his foot when he'd heard the telltale rattle a split second before excruciating pain had struck his good ankle. It had been like nothing he'd ever experienced before—a sharpness like being stabbed by a knife followed by a raging burn coursing up every nerve ending in his leg.

Wilson had screamed, but his larynx had been exhausted earlier and his throat was parched so nothing had come out. Looking down at his ankle, he'd seen a terrifying sight: a rattlesnake with it's fangs still gripping his leg just above the ankle joint, still pumping lethal venom into him. He'd frantically tried shaking the offending creature off and eventually it had let go and slithered away at lightning speed. He'd known, then, that his chances of surviving this were slim to none unless somebody came by right away, found him, and got him to a hospital a.s.a.p.

It hadn't been long before his arms gave out and he'd slid down the incline to almost where he'd started.

Wilson felt it getting harder to take in a full breath of air and he was pretty much blind, his body slowly succumbing to the neurotoxic action of the snake venom in his system. He could feel the hot sun shining relentlessly down on him. If the venom didn't kill him, dehydration would.

So this was how it ended, then; done in, ultimately, not by cancer but by a snake and his own ineptitude. House had sacrificed everything to be there with him when Wilson died and now they would both be cheated of that.

It was becoming difficult for him to string thoughts together into a cogent whole. Somewhere in his brain he was able to acknowledge that it wouldn't be long now.

…

Eleven o'clock came and went and Wilson still hadn't returned to the motel. The gnawing sensation in House's stomach wasn't due to hunger; the man who reasoned rather than worried was breaking his own rule. Under normal circumstances he wouldn't have been so concerned, but nothing was normal anymore. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Wilson was sick, whether or not he was displaying symptoms at this point in the course of his disease. He could have suffered an attack of Paraneoplastic syndrome, or the thymoma might have metastasized and be causing him problems elsewhere in his body. He was a novice motorcyclist; anything sudden or tricky about his ride and he could have wiped out, or been in an accident with a car or truck or—

_Get a grip, Greg!_ He told himself sternly. He considered contacting the police but just as quickly nixed that idea. It was just too risky for them both. If the police were able to figure out who House was, Wilson would be charged with aiding and abetting a known fugitive and he would be in the county jail before he knew what hit him. Contacting the policet would be his very last resort. Risking jumping the gun, House decided to head out, follow the route Wilson would have taken to and from Scottsdale and look for him himself. Chances were they'd miss each other by minutes, but House couldn't shake the feeling that he had to search for him right now.

Scribbling out a note for Wilson on the single piece of notepaper in the desk drawer, telling him to call House's cell immediately and keep his ass in the room until he returned, House left it on Wilson's pillow and then set out to find him; he took with him the map and booklet the motel clerk had given him earlier that morning.

As he rode House looked at the other side of the road for any sign of a motorcycle crash or other clue while trying to keep an eye out on his side as well. Consequently he had to drive considerably slower than he otherwise would have. A couple of times he saw something iffy—some shattered glass on the road, something reflective in the ditch and so forth—and pulled over and parked his bike. He climbed off his ride to investigate. Finding nothing each time he felt both relief and frustration.

Approximately ten minutes from the motel on the quiet side road he saw a single-track skid mark on the pavement on the other side. Hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he was compelled to stop. As before, he parked his bike on the shoulder, climbed off, removed his helmet and hung it on his bike, unlatched his cane from its clip, and searched the ditches. Only here, the ditches had become deep, steep gulleys on either side of the road.

House headed across the road to investigate the black skid mark on the paler pavement. It looked consistent with a motorcycle tire and was fresh. His heart sped up as his anxiety level rose. Immediately he moved to the edge of the road and searched the gully with his eyes.

"Wilson!" he shouted. "Wilson!"

His heart skipped several beats when his eye caught the twisted remains of a motorcycle below.

"Shit!" he hissed, now looking more frantically for the rider, hoping that he wasn't as messed up as his bike. Then he saw him—a black leather heap on the ground about a really good stone's throw away in the direction of where he'd come. Wilson had to have been thrown clear of the bike before tumbling to the bottom. That heap wasn't moving at all, as far as House could tell.

Adrenalin pumping and causing him to focus only on getting to Wilson to the exclusion of everything else including the pain in his leg, House hurried along the edge of the road toward the body and then slowly made his way down the precariously steep descent, leaving his cane behind; it would be more of a nuisance than help. He slid a few times on his way down but managed to keep himself from tumbling ass over teakettle.

Once he was near the bottom the terrain evened out and he was able to limp the rest of the way to the unmoving form. Wilson no longer wore his helmet and House worried that it may have fallen off on his way down leaving his best friend open to serious head trauma; he couldn't see it anywhere around him. One of Wilson's boots was missing as well.

House knelt down next to his motionless lover, swallowed hard to keep his terror at bay, and immediately shoved his hands inside Wilson's jacket in order to feel up and down Wilson's spine as well as he could. Reasonably convinced that his neck and back hadn't been broken House carefully rolled Wilson completely onto his back. His face was swollen and blackened almost completely with bruising. House proceeded to check on Wilson's ABCs—airway, breathing and circulation. There seemed to be no obstructions to his breathing though it was alarmingly shallow and slow. On the other hand, Wilson's heart rate was tachycardic. House tried to rouse his best friend to no avail.

He quickly and carefully examined Wilson's skull for any signs of severe head trauma. He found a scalp wound over Wilson's ear that was still bleeding well, but it was minor; the scalp was so vascular that it bled quite a bit from the smallest of cuts. He didn't rule out the possibility of closed head trauma. He checked the rest of Wilson's body, opening clothing and removing some to get to his skin. There was extensive bruising and a few small cuts but the leathers had done a good job at protecting him. There was no abdominal rigidity or sign of broken ribs, though a couple may have been cracked, so no physical indication of internal bleeding—at least, not yet.

House quickly moved down his legs in search of broken bones and dislocated joints. He noted that the bootless foot was quite swollen and discolored. Expecting to find a broken ankle, he recoiled in surprise when he found the two deep, side-by-side puncture wounds central to the swelling and discoloration.

_Snakebite. Goddamn._

Immediately House looked around them for any sign of the snake that had left its mark on Wilson. Not seeing anything but still wary, House sat back, rubbing at his own damaged thigh. There was no way he could avoid it now—he had to call for an ambulance. Wilson needed immediate treatment in a hospital; House could do nothing for him out there.

From what he knew about snakes that inhabited the region, which was pitifully little except for what he'd read on a sign at a rest stop, and from the breadth of the bite, he pretty much reasoned it had been made by a rattlesnake. There were several species of rattlesnakes but the two most prominent in the region were the Diamondback and the Mojave. The bite of either of them could be lethal if not treated quickly with antivenom and supportive care but the Mojave's venom was one of the most lethal animal neurotoxins in North America if not the world. The Diamondback's venom, on the other hand, was mostly hemotoxic in action, destroying surrounding tissues and causing hemolysis. Though also dangerous, it wasn't usually as lethal. The rules, he knew, were not cut and dry. Some Mojaves were known to have venom that was both neuro-_and_ hemotoxic and the same was true of some Diamondbacks. Since House was by no means an expert at differentiating snakebites, he had no idea which species had left its mark on Wilson.

House pulled out his cellphone but there was no signal there. He exhaled sharply. He would have to climb back up to the road to have a better chance at finding one; that would be easier said than done and there was no way he'd be able to take Wilson with him.

House gently caressed Wilson's face and pressed a kiss to his sunburnt forehead. "Hold on, James, please. I need to get some help." before forcing himself to his feet. His leg shrieked at him but he gritted his teeth and blinked back tears; he had no other choice. Slowly he made his way up to the road, at times feeling like he was going to pass out from the pain. The knowledge that Wilson was depending upon him kept him moving regardless.

With one final heave using every muscle in his upper body, House threw himself over the edge and onto the narrow dirt shoulder of the road. Panting hard, House pulled out his cellphone again, relieved to find a signal. He called for help, describing to the dispatcher the situation and their location, and demanding that a search and rescue team and ambulance be dispatched immediately. When asked for his name, he hesitated a moment before giving her his alias. She told him to stay on the phone. House fell onto his side, trying to slow and deepen his breathing, hoping that help arrived in time.

…

House kept his head down as much as possible as he was treated for minor cuts and abrasions received from his descent down and climb back up the incline. He sat on the treatment table in the ER bay next to Wilson's. As a nurse expertly cleaned his minor injuries with saline and a pair of tweezers, trauma staff evaluated Wilson and treated him immediately with Crotaline Fab (CroFab) antivenom. The curtain between their bays was drawn and this frustrated House because he needed to see and hear everything that was being done for Wilson and couldn't catch much through the material.

The middle-aged LPN tending to him, _Sylvia_, according to her ID badge, sensed his tension and looked up at him, meeting his gaze. "You found him, Mr. Bell?" she asked, nodding in Wilson's direction.

"Yeah," House answered, forcing himself to be as meek and mild-mannered as possible; the last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself, especially the attention of any medical staff who might have heard of him or seen pictures of him in the literature. He knew that the cops would be by to ask questions but he was less concerned about that. Since he was legally dead, they weren't on the look out for him as a fugitive and his chances of being recognized by the local police were slim. "Look, I'm his boyfriend…his life-partner. Is there anyway you can have them open the curtain so I can see him?"

Her grey eyes softened with compassion. "I'll see what I can do," she answered, setting her saline bottle down and leaving his bay briefly. She returned a few moments later and pulled open the curtain between the bays before returning to her job tending to House's wounds.

"Thanks," House mumbled. She nodded without looking up or making a big deal out of it, which House appreciated.

He watched and listened carefully to the activity happening around Wilson, who appeared to have been stabilized but was still in critical condition. He'd been intubated and placed on a ventilator, hooked up with IVs and monitor wires. House could just glimpse the heart and blood pressure readings, which were improving slowly but steadily. A radiology technician arrived with a portable X-ray machine to take a series of images in search of fractures, spots and other indicators of trouble. House assumed that numerous tubes of blood had been drawn from Wilson to be analyzed by the Level 1 trauma center's laboratory. He wished he still had his team to run those tests and oversee Wilson's care under his leadership but dead doctors weren't allowed to practice medicine or have a staff of Fellows working for them. He was forced to trust the knowledge and skills of strangers and that was extremely difficult for him.

Nurse Sylvia finished with the last of his dressings. "There you go, Mr. Bell," she said to House, standing up from her stool and gathering up the trash from the sterile dressings and swabs. "Fortunately you didn't need any stitches, but I did have to pick out a lot of dirt, small gravel and plant matter from some of your cuts. When you're discharged you'll be given a prescription for a topical antibiotic you can use to prevent infection; you can have it filled at the hospital pharmacy, if you like. You'll also be given a sheet with instructions for proper cleaning and care of your injuries in case you're an idiot who doesn't know how to use soap and water and a Band-Aid or two." She gave him a knowing wink with the sarcasm and House smirked slightly. "I let the Attending physician in charge of your partner's care know that you were with him. He'll be around to fill you in on what's happening with Mr. Wilson as soon as possible. If you behave yourself you can wait here and watch what's going on."

"Will I get a Lolly-pop for being a good boy?" House quipped sarcastically.

"I'll see what I can do," she replied drily, a corner of her mouth rising slightly before she hurried off to her next patient. House watched her go; she had a nice ass, but Wilson's was nicer.

And from the look of it, House would have a chance to enjoy that ass again…at least until the thymoma took Wilson away from him forever.

…

Wilson woke up and realized that meant he was still alive. He felt like shit, but he was still in the land of the living. Opening his eyes cautiously he saw that he was in a darkened hospital room, lying slightly inclined on a bed, connected to an IV pump and vitals monitor. His throat burned and Wilson recognized it as the irritation cause by an endotracheal tube that was no longer there. Instead he had nasal cannula taped to his face, feeding him air enriched with oxygen. His left ankle was swollen and wrapped in a tensor bandage because of the sprain he'd suffered. His right ankle was slightly swollen and wrapped lightly in dressings where he'd been bitten.

Someone had found him and saved his life, short as it was going to be. Unless he was able to recover quickly and still qualify for the treatment protocol he'd been admitted into; then he could have months longer to live, and possibly years. Over the muted sound of the heart monitor beeping with his stable heartbeat, Wilson heard familiar snoring and turned his head to see House slung over an uncomfortable-looking armchair to the left of the bed, sleeping. His mouth was slightly agape and a red Lollypop hung precariously from it, stuck in place on his lower lip. His hands boasted light dressings and his jeans were dirtied and torn at the right knee, but otherwise he looked no worse for wear. House had found him, Wilson was certain of it. Of course he had.

Smiling fondly, Wilson drifted back to sleep.

…

"When they saw the mass on the X-ray they came to me and gravely told me that you appeared to have a tumor, talking to me like I'm a moron," House said chuckling, watching Wilson discard his hospital gown and dress in the clean clothing House had brought to him. The older man sat on the edge of Wilson's hospital bed, enjoying the view and disappointed that it was short lived. No matter; as soon as he got Wilson back to the motel room those clothes would be quickly removed. "It took everything I had not to tell them exactly what the tumor was and the staging of your disease."

"Good thing you didn't," Wilson told him with a serious look. "You don't want to draw attention to the fact that you have medical training, especially in a hospital." He pulled a T-shirt over his head and then approached House on a pair of crutches. His one ankle was sprained and it would be a few days before he could put weight on it and his other ankle was recovering quite well and didn't really need any aid in carrying him but was sore nonetheless. He leaned the crutches against the wall behind the bed and sat down next to House. He grabbed House behind the head and pulled him into a hungry kiss, which his partner greedily returned. When they separated to breathe, they rested their foreheads together.

"The cops asked a few questions but they didn't seem at all suspicious," House informed him. "Since it was a single-vehicle accident and obviously driver-error they lost interest. I don't think we'll be bothered by them again."

"I agree," Wilson replied. "They asked me a handful of questions and left. Any suspicious looks from the medical staff?"

"One double-take by an intern," House said with a shrug, "but nothing more. I think we're in the clear. Even so, as soon as you're able to travel we'll trade in my bike for a car and get out of here. No more motorcycles for you, you klutz."

Wilson smirked ruefully and nodded. "Uh, about getting out of here…there may be a slight delay in that happening."

House pulled back to look Wilson fully in the face, his eyes narrowed with suspicion as they searched for tells. "Why?"

Wilson sighed and shrugged sheepishly. He was a little nervous and uncertain of what House's reaction might be.

"I didn't tell you the real reason I went to Scottsdale by myself," Wilson said slowly, his eyes watching House for indications as to what he was feeling and thinking.

"And that would be?" House asked, unable to completely hide an amused smirk.

"I had an appointment with an oncologist at a cancer research and treatment clinic…about entering an alternative treatment program," Wilson admitted. "I didn't want you to know until I was certain I qualified because I didn't want you to be disappointed if it turned out I didn't…and somehow you already know this, don't you? How?"

"It was a hunch," House replied, shrugging. "Your sudden insistence that we change our original plans to come this way was one clue. When the motel clerk said you had asked for directions to downtown Scottsdale she gave me a pamphlet from the Chamber of Commerce. The clinic was listed as one of the businesses located there. It seemed to be too much of a coincidence; that and the fact that you were keeping a secret from me and lied about why you had left so early in the morning. You're lucky I was curious enough to nose around or else you would have died thanks to that Mojave bite. There was no way I was going to let some slithering vermin to shorten what little time..." His voice trailed off not wanting to verbalize what they both already knew. "So…are you going to tell me if you qualified?"

Wilson broke out in a grin. "I'm a prime candidate. I should have spoken with you about it first but I enrolled in the program."

"You don't owe me an explanation," House told him, a smile slowly emerging on his face as well. "It's your life, your choice. I told you, I'm here with you no matter what." He sobered a little, searching Wilson eyes. "Are you certain this is what _you_ want to do? I don't want you to make this decision based on what I want."

"House, what you want is very important to me; it was one of the factors I took into consideration when I first made my decision. However, I made this decision because it's what _I_ want, too. Knowing how much you love me and have sacrificed to be with me…well, it made my fear of a little pain and inconvenience look pretty petty and cowardly. Now that I have you as my friend _and_ my lover, I don't want to sit back and let this go. I don't want to let _you_ go." Wilson took a deep, cleansing breath and exhaled slowly. "Intake is Monday with my first treatment scheduled for Tuesday morning—that is, if I still qualify but I don't think that will be a problem."

"For how long?" House asked, lifting his hand to caress Wilson's cheek.

"The induction phase is four weeks on, four weeks off for six months," he replied. "DNA specific chemotherapy alternated weekly with focused radiotherapy. I'll also have a carefully monitored diet and exercise program and sessions with a pain management expert if necessary. I'll be able to receive treatment on an outpatient basis, which means that we'll have to find a more permanent living arrangement and postpone our road trip for a while. A couple of doctors on staff recognized me and know that we were friends before your tragic death. One of them attended a conference you spoke at, so he'll recognize you as you are. I want you there with me but it won't be safe."

House nodded, thinking. "I could change my appearance, don a disguise." He wagged his eyebrows. "Could be fun."

Wilson rolled his eyes, "Unless you get caught. The doctor who has seen you before isn't involved in my treatment but there's still a risk."

House shrugged. "We'll make it work. Anything for a chance at beating this damned cancer and having a future with you."

Wilson smirked. "I never would have guessed you were such a romantic," he teased.

"See what you missed out on for so long?" House replied then scowled. "If you tell _anyone_—"

"Who am I going to tell?" Wilson replied, kissing him sweetly on the lips. "You're dead, remember?" He stood up with the aid of his crutches and handed House his cane. "Let's get out of here. We'll go somewhere nice for brunch."

"Brunch," House echoed, snorting derisively, rolling his eyes, and holding the door for Wilson before following him out. "You become more and more a girl everyday, you know that?"

_**~fin~**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: ****Celebration**

**Author: pgrabia**

**Disclaimer: **House M.D. and its characters do not belong to me. I am only borrowing them for entertainment purposes only and I'm not making any money from this.

**Genre: **Drama/Romance

**Characters/Pairing(s): **G. House, J. Wilson, OC/ House/Wilson slash.

**Word Count: **~630

**Spoilers/Warnings: **General spoilers for all seasons up to and including episode 8x22 "Everybody Dies". Unbetaed, sorry.

**Rating: K+(PG)**

**A/N: **Can be seen as an epilogue to my previous fic _**Once Bitten**_ and will be better understood if you read that one first though I think this can stand alone.

Written for **Camp Sick!Wilson 2012 Challenge # 2: Cure!Wilson** at the Sick!Wilson community on Livejournal.

**Celebration**

A year to the day after Wilson began the alternative treatment program for his thymoma at the Scottsdale, Arizona treatment center his scans and blood work came back clean and clear. House had been there with Wilson in Dr. Dan McMurtry's office when the oncologist and researcher who had been in charge of Wilson's care for the past year gave them the incredible news.

"Congratulations, James," McMurtry wished him as they all rose from his desk and he shook Wilson's and House's hands in turn. "You too, Thomas. Continue with your appointments with the dietician and with your nutrient regimen and exercise. I'll see you again in three months for a follow-up appointment and if everything is still good at that point we'll book another appointment for six months after that."

"Thank you, Dan, for everything," Wilson said sincerely. House gave him a nod in agreement with his lover before Wilson and he made their way for the door.

"Oh, and Mr. Bell," McMurtry called after them before they opened the door, "or should I say Dr. House?" He gave House and Wilson a knowing look and smile. "Take care of James and rest assured that your secret is safe with me…although I'm saddened to know that a man with your gift will no longer be able to use it for the betterment of lives and medicine as a whole."

House exhaled in relief; there was something about McMurtry that he trusted; after all, the man had been instrumental in giving him back his best friend and allowing them more time together than either of them had thought possible. Besides, if McMurtry were going to rat him out to the cops he wouldn't have given him a warning and a head start.

"I will," House assured him quietly. "Some things…or people…are worth the sacrifice." His eyes moved to look at Wilson as he spoke. Wilson smiled mildly and grabbed House's hand, leading him out of the office.

Once in the parking lot standing next to their car, Wilson threw his head back and whooped in victory, grinning from ear to ear. House couldn't help but watch him with amusement and devotion. A year ago he'd been watching the clock count down on the time he had left with Wilson before the thymoma finally won the war and took the younger man away from him. Now he'd enjoyed seven months longer than either he or Wilson had expected and the future was wide open. Wilson's thymoma could come back in a month, or a year, or five years, or ten years, or if they were really lucky, never at all, but it didn't matter because the time they had from now on was a gift.

"Let's go celebrate!" Wilson told him as he climbed into the car, toward which they had exchanged House's motorcycle after Wilson had totaled his.

House climbed in behind the steering wheel. He started the car then turned to look at Wilson. "Where to?"

"Home," Wilson answered as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. He smiled slyly, eyeing House with desire. "I told you, I want to _celebrate_."

House put the car into gear and drove them out of that parking lot with the peeling of tires on pavement; after all, he wanted to celebrate, too.

_**~fin~**_


End file.
